


Dreamcatcher

by ggfoye



Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [9]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Book 2: A Court of Mist and Fury, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, One Shot, Pre Mating Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26643142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggfoye/pseuds/ggfoye
Summary: Feyre’s had this dream countless times before, so Rhysand doesn’t worry. But there's something different this time.One-Shot. Set during ACOMAF.I do not own any of the characters, Sarah J. Maas does.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942270
Kudos: 73





	Dreamcatcher

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not a 100% happy about this because it didn’t turn out exactly as I’d imagined it, but I hope you guys enjoy it :)

_ Feyre _

I've seen this scene before many times. I've watched it happen over and over again. Tonight would be no different.

Amarantha's throne room was dead quiet. Everyone expecting me to do something. Expecting to see or hear anything that might hint what was my decision. Most of the energy in the crowd was begging me to do it—to put an end to it. But there were also some distant cries, pleas. Appealing to the human in me, not to kill those they loved. Those innocents.

Standing before me.

I killed the first one. I stabbed him as he begged and cried for mercy. I watched as the light left his eyes and his face froze in a gut-wrenching expression.

The second kill, the female, was no easier, even though she claimed to wish for it. Her body fell on my feet with a loud thump.

I was shaking on the inside. I knew what came next. I would see the man I loved, died and killed for standing before me. I would see the consequences of my arrogance.

This time, I took some time to look around first. Memorize the faces that stared at me, either admiring or horrified. Something was different, though. The air felt heavier on this dream, as if someone else was there, watching it with me, and I wondered why.

Maybe because it was because of what I was about to do. What I was about to sacrifice—how I would change the narrative, even if it was only in my subconscious.

Before I drove the stake through my own heart, I allowed myself to wait to see him. But before they could reveal his face, I realized I couldn't do it—once more, my dream proved me weak. How many times would I have to revisit this before I found the courage to end it all?

But it wasn't just my life I'd be ending. That I knew. So when the time came, I always chose to save the others over myself.

I was too far gone anyway.

But maybe... maybe this time I didn't have to make myself watch. Since I already knew how and where it would all end anyway—alone, sat down on the bathroom floor, throwing up violently. If Tamlin wouldn't be there to witness my ruin, then maybe for once I would choose to not be there for his.

And so I took a deep breath, balanced the dagger in my hand, and drove it through his heart just before they pulled out the cloth to uncover him.

Nothing happened. I heard his body fall to the floor and waited. This was the part when my vision started shaking and I would wake up to rush to the toilet.

But, like before, I realized this particular dream setting was different.

Fighting my unwillingness to look at him, I began listening. But... Tamlin's moans weren't his. His voice was... hoarser and... sweeter, somehow. Like how you'd imagine stars would sound like if they sang as they were shooting across the sky. Dipped into a calming and inviting darkness.

I finally turned.

The hollowed, wide-opened eyes that stared back at me weren't the ones I was expecting. They weren't warm and green—they were the most alluring kind of violet. A color that screamed for all to hear how striking, in every way possible, that person was. How unique.

My heart sank into my boots. I had no tears left to cry in me, and still, a whimper came out from deep within me, obliterating everything around with a blinding light.

All that was left was me, kneeling down before the one I'd just murdered, staring apathetically at nothing specific. I was mad and confused and hopeless and I wasn't supposed to care that much—it was just a dream. And either way, _most_ of all, I wasn't supposed to _care_ that much.

And I had no idea why, but all I could think was _not him_.

_Not him._

_Not him._

I started laughing. Laughing hysterically. Because I knew that wasn't real, and I knew Rhysand was alive, and I was in Tamlin's room, not Amarantha's palace. I just hadn't realized how creative my mind had gotten over the months—always trying to find new ways to completely destroy me. How my self-destruction patterns never ceased to amaze me.

And so I stayed there. Laughing and laughing at my own misery.

———

_ Rhysand _

It had only been a few days since Feyre had left for the Spring Court, and a few months since she started visiting my court once a month. I didn't feel like I was being too intrusive, given that I'd already warned her I would sometimes, in my sleep, enter her dreams by accident. And how I would sometimes stay there watching, only to check if the threats there were real or if she was, indeed, only dreaming.

But that dream was already recurring. I'd memorized it—and even if I hadn't, those scenes were also stamped on my brain and would often serve as stage to my own nightmares.

When she's at the Night Court, under my protection, I make sure not to scoop inside her mind when she's asleep—I already know she's safe when she's here. But when she's gone—it's just not that easy.

I miss and worry about her every second of the day. I push away thoughts of how she'll look the next time I see her—will she be even skinnier? Will the dark circles under her eyes be gone? Will her collarbones and cheekbones get even more protuberant? Will she even look or act alive?

At least in that dream, that horrifying dream, she still looked like herself. Even months stuck in a cell Under the Mountain hadn't had the effect that those recent months in the Spring Court had on her.

I watch her kill those fae. Steady hands, but trembling knees. She doesn't want them to suffer longer than needed, so she takes the burden for herself. Whenever it's time for her to kill Tamlin, I can't bring myself to feel joy or pleasure in that scene, even though I'd very much enjoy driving my own dagger through his heart. But it's my mate there, killing the man she loves, destroying herself for him, and I can't stand to see her in pain. I want her to have him. I want him to live. As long as she's not in pain.

But this time, something's changed. She doesn't look. It feels like she doesn't want to be there for him when it happens. She just wants to get it over with. Which means she knows this is a dream. She's here in her mind, and she's conscious of it. Suddenly, I become more cautious. It wouldn't be so pleasant if she sensed my presence here. So as I'm about to retrieve into my own subconscious, I hear her whimper.

She usually doesn't cry—not anymore. This dream had become too predictable and routinely. So I turn around.

And see myself before her.

I'm dead, and the whole audience is gone. It's just me and her. She stares at my dead body looking emotionless. And I hear it from a distance, her mental voice on the background.

_Not him. Not him. Not him._

I really shouldn't have stayed. This breaks and twists my heart into a million little pieces. I can't breathe. I want to get out of there, but if I storm out she'll notice. I can't watch this.

Of course I knew she hated me. I guess part of me just stupidly hoped that in the last months, with our monthly visits, she just started hating me a little bit less.

I couldn't blame her. How could I? I had been a monster to her. I hurt her, and manipulated her, and humiliated her. And then I forced my presence on her.

But nothing prepared me for what came next, and the staggering pain that it brought.

She started laughing. Out loud. Looking at my corpse like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen.

It wasn't Tamlin who she had killed. No—it was just me.

_Not him. Not him. Not him._

She was glad. Cheerful, even.

I couldn't watch it.

"Rhysand," she whispers.

I freeze. Shit shit shit.

"Rhys," she repeats.

But she's not talking to me. Not _me_ me anyway. Her voice is broken, coming from deep inside her and breaking free from the hysterical laughter as a high-pitched wail.

She's not laughing anymore. No—those are tears in her eyes. Accumulating and cascading endlessly. She cries and cries and cries over my dead body.

I have no idea what's going on.

"I'm so sorry!", she cries out.

I don't think she's aware anymore. There's darkness building on the corners of her mind, as if her powers were more in control of her than the other way around. She no longer knows this is a dream. And she's terrified. Horrified at what she just did.

"Not him, not him, not him!" This time she's yelling, and it's not just a voice mumbling from far away.

And I get it. She didn't _want_ to kill me. She wanted it _not_ to be me. In a twisted, unexplainable way, she _cares_. I don't allow myself to have hope, though. I can't.

But she's desperate, leaning over my body, soaking up my clothes, shaking me, begging me to wake up. She strokes my hair and leans her forehead against mine.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats, stuttering, "You took care of me. You protected me. You saved me and I... I couldn't save you."

That wasn't true. Feyre _was_ my salvation. There was nothing else in the world worth seeing or witnessing if there was no her. She did save me, and in so many ways.

I wanted to tell her that.

"Rhys, please," she whined.

My name on her lips would forever be my favorite music. But I couldn't bear hearing it when she sounded so scared and anguished.

_I'm here, Feyre. Everything's alright. I'm fine. You're fine. This isn't real._

She looks around, suddenly confused. She doesn't know where my voice is coming from.

_It's Rhys, Feyre darling. I'm alive. It's just a dream._

"Rhys? You're here? In my mind?"

 _Yes_..., I say, a little embarrassed. _I'm sorry. You were having a nightmare and I..._

"Don't be," she cut in, "I'm glad. I... don't want to wake up, though," she says, sounding uneasy, "if I do, I'll..."

_I know._

I want to comfort her. Even though I know I'm not the shoulder she seeks. But because I know he won't. And that fact alone already makes me want to kill him.

_Relax, Feyre. I'll stay here with you until you're fully unconscious again. There's nothing to worry about. You're safe. We got out. We got out._

Those words seemed to have the right effect on her and calmness washed over her. I hummed an old illyrian lullaby in her mind, and minutes later, the scene changed again.

There was only Feyre this time—a younger, human Feyre. On a tiny wooden shaft in the middle of the woods. She's covered in animal blood and her clothes are ragged, but her face is serene. She opens the door and climbs up to the roof, where she lies down and looks up to the night sky, her fingers painting patterns with the stars.

I smile, full of warmth, and step away from her mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are welcomed :)
> 
> Anyway, I’ve been binge-writing one-shots, so if you have any requests on Feysand or Rowaelin fanfics feel free to let me know!


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